Part XV: Excitable Boy

If you’re inclined to begin feeling sympathy for Malcolm Bidd to know his death is imminent, just know this: he has been anticipating it himself. The moment he recognizes what he’s done, even then, he’s already known. This clash with Agog was his first official fight in the war, but he has been much at work throughout it, and not just in his capacity as mayor of the city. Before he was felled by Barren Blood along with his brother, Field had stumbled upon Malcolm, and in all his pride, believed he was to be the one to claim the glory, just as Agog after him. Field was an interesting figure. He manipulated a field; such was how he gained his name. This field allowed him to levitate, which is not exactly to say fly, and in his early years, Field became quite familiar with the difference, yet as he matured, he grew in his ability so that it was no longer quite so obvious. He was able to rest on air pockets, and not just himself, but any one object he concentrated on, so that, in time, he was able to use these objects as weapons, too. Before he’d mastered this, he was mostly set-up for his twin Pitch, and together, they would find themselves in plenty of mischief. As heroes, they proved to be formidable.

Due to the gradual nature of his development, Field was more likely than not to be the withdrawn member of his twin assault, the one who would sit back and allow his brother to do most of the talking, as well as the fighting. In the back of his mind, he always knew that his power could be used for greater things than simple distraction and volleys (Volley, in fact, being an early codename, to his brother’s Spike), and he was often impatient to see it become as such, so much so that he probably impaired his own maturity, so that he was overly-developed in his mind, and yet less so in any tangible sense. To most extents, he was the dormant half of this blood pack. This persisted for years, and he spent a lot of this time steeling away so that he could work on his power in privacy, almost as if ashamed, or aware that he would best use it alone, and not with anyone else, even his brother, his twin, who seemed to know what was going on all along. Pitch would confront Field, and Field would have nothing to say in his defense, because he refused to talk about it, believing that no one else could understand. As far as he could ever tell, his power was unique, even though it was so similar to what was so common within the heroic community. But levitation wasn’t flight.

Field often found himself in trouble because he tried so hard to hide his practice. He would often be caught, and when prodded, he would still refuse to betray himself, producing outright lies, misdirection, half-truths, and simplifications, for each of these, he believed, would be more easily swallowed. But in all of this, he was improving. He would participate, outside of his usual circles, away from his brother, in exercises, in heroic demonstrations, few noticing because that was the purpose, at least that was what he began telling himself. The first time he had intended to reestablishment himself in his independence, and he had failed. The villain got away and he got to think of himself as a failure. It was a full year, a full year of thinking of other things, before he tried again, more modestly. He placed an ad in the paper, offering his services. To the day he died, Field never understood why he did that, why after leaving it behind for so long he suddenly thought himself capable of the thing he had already failed at, and to tell complete strangers, to mislead, that the truth was anything but. It didn’t matter; in the end of that, when he’d received a few offers for his services, none of which he ever replied to, he gave up on the venture once again. This time, however, he did not completely abandon his quest. The paper to which he’d sent the ad, from which he had received interest, he took on its city as a sort of home, to work on his power in an actual, practical sense and not just in theoretical. He began taking on small jobs, achieving small heroic victories such as preventing muggings and breaking up loiterers and skateboarding parties in front of shops. By the time he sought out villains again, he was ready. Field began to think of himself as a success again. And nobody noticed.

In all the time he had been toiling, he had never become embraced by the residents of that city, and it was at least a year he’d been there. A year can produce a lot of things, but recognition wasn’t one of them, at least not there. During this time, he did not entirely abandon his brother, though. Pitch and Field began to receive wider acclaim, and Pitch immediately recognized to what this could be attributed, how his brother had been improving. Such was their status when they entered the confines of Traverse, when their hour of doom loomed before them in the form of Barren Blood. And yet, Field was not finished yet in his solo ambitions.

The twins were gaining a reputation as two of the greatest warriors on their side of the conflict, and this more than enough inspiration for Field to venture still further unto the breach. He began looking for fights, before this was a prevalent method, and the first fight he found was with Malcolm Bidd, in all his majesty in the cloak of shrouded men, before he had found a use for it. It was in the dead of night. Field, who preferred anonymity when he could find it and when he wasn’t seeking glory, had gone off on his own again, testing his power still further. There were distances in the sky he hadn’t never been to, points to which he would become, if spotted from the ground, little more than a speck, his winged cape, if visible at all, perhaps flared out as he soared from one pocket to another, leaping in his confidence (to know the origin of his levitation was to bring about a momentary consideration of shame when he thought about it, though Field knew that no one else would likely guess it, and that there really was no shame to magic).

On this night, he pushed himself, pushed so far that he could feel the physical as well as mental strain. The night sky was a perfect one, filled with the brilliant points of the stars, and even below, immaculate silence, as if the whole world stood in awe of this spectacle, of Field’s achievement, and the rest in the war, when men took to their beds and forgot their heavy arms. Even in Traverse this was necessary. For as much as the combatants were eager for war, ready to see the decisive elements align and one side claim victory over the other, each always believing this right to be theirs, they knew that to persist in the face of weariness would be detrimental to their cause, would harm their chances and weaken them, which, in this late hour, they could no longer afford. The war had become more heated in this tenth year, but its warriors smarter, more calculated, more ready than ever to see their aims met. This was when they could most expect to make mistakes.

Field made one now. He came upon the figure of the shrouded man to complete alarm for them both, and for a moment, neither knew what to do. There was nothing for Field to summon, no object here capable of aiding him, just his own wits and whatever skill he had acquired. He knew this figure was a threat even though he could not identify it. He called to it, and the figure stirred, turning toward him, wordless. This was how Field knew it was a man. He allowed himself to believe he could achieve what had always been impossible for him, moving a living object. He concentrated while the figure remained dormant, before he had the courage to peer beneath the hood. On this cloak he could see, almost as if trophies of victories recorded for posterity, past struggles well-known among men depicted in vivid, life-like form. He saw Godsend and the Eidolon battle Rancor, in all his demonic glory, the gore of previous victims still dripping on his talons. Field could not resist shuddering, which broke his concentration.

The figure moved again, the hood shifted. Field looked into the eyes of Malcolm Bidd, and knew at once what fate would befall him, even though Malcolm himself did not assault him. Field escaped, defeated without a fight, back below the air pockets, hiding himself away in the locker he employed when his power overwhelmed him, which was often. He told no one, least of all his brother, what he had seen, and not long after, he lost the opportunity forever.

For his part, Malcolm handled the exposing well. With Field soon eliminated, at Malcolm’s own request, he was able to continue on as usual for a quite a while afterward, though he knew it was only a matter of time now, before he was forced into battle, as the champion he knew he was expected to be. How had it all come to this? He had called for Field’s death, and for what? for the simple fact that his nightly wandering had been discovered, or for the fact that he had one of those costumes and that he wore it around? It should have been nothing but embarrassing, but it was, in the end, nothing but asking for trouble, because that it what he had wanted. He wanted an end to the war, the war that had brought so much destruction to his city, which he had only ever wanted to protect, to preserve. If he had to be a champion to do so, then he would be one. What troubled him, in every waking moment, was the thought that he was fighting the wrong cause. What did he see around him but every reason for this war, his own brother, his own father? What did he see in his own actions?

He saw nothing but regret, and the knowledge that it was not over. He had known from the start that he would become a martyr. The reason he had run for office was so he could begin to undo the wrongs he had seen around him, the spreading corruption, the harm that was coming from the misguided good. All he saw was misguided good, men who believed they were doing the right thing by becoming tyrants because they saw the power they could wield from seizing control of situations they wanted corrected, situations they thought they understood, and they alone. He saw that the only chance for redemption was to fall into this trap himself, so that he could correct its course, assume control so that he could bring about a definitive end, at last.

Do you feel sympathy for this man? Malcolm Bidd took the reigns of power within his own hands, his own fate, and the fate of his beloved city, knowing that a destructive fire would be the only result. He did this because he believed the destruction was exactly what was needed. He put all the cogs in motion, so that he and he alone dictated the course of the war, at least for his side, but so that he could manipulate the other as well. For every victory he allowed his warriors to believe in, they were bringing about their own downfall. Viper, who had made all of this possible, was the easiest of all; no, strangely, Barracuda was, Barracuda the wild card, Barracuda the unknown element who fell into every trap, as if he were colluding with Malcolm, even though Malcolm knew it was impossible. Still, Malcolm’s victories were engineered as defeats.

Thus was his confrontation with Agog accomplished, this last visible element, the victory the city would embrace. All who had seen it were convinced of its authenticity, believed that in the clash of the war, Malcolm Bidd had slain Godsend. The effect was to bring boldness into the heart of every resident, who believed their city to now be preserved at last, and distraught to every invader, who now presumed their cause to be lost, though they would stay and fight all the same, to the last. What more could they do?

He had known all along, had he not, whom he had been fighting, whom he knew he was going to defeat, so easily? He would have anyway; he was Malcolm Bidd, on whom so many had trusted, almost without reason, except he had planted it in their hearts for so long. He was their champion, their greatest defender. And yet there had been doubt, not just in the identity of this Godsend, but in Malcolm’s own prowess, not in the hearts of Traverse, never, but in his own. He doubted himself for the first time, because he grew afraid, frightened at the implication for the first time, because he was looking at knowledge for the first time. He knew, not just in the abstract sense anymore, that he was going to die. He had set himself up for a fall, and now that the fall was imminent, Malcolm feared it. He took as refuge to his sanctuary in the sky. He had not removed his cloak since the fight.

Do you feel sympathy for him? Malcolm has reached this moment without having to know anymore of what has happened since that victory. He has claimed Godsend’s raiment as his own, has in fact put it on himself. Godsend will have new clothing, more brilliant than before, and he will be here at any moment, filled with all the rage the loss of a dear one will evoke. He will be filled with uncontrollable, insatiable fury. Malcolm brought about his retirement, not out of fear, from the battlefield, and now his return. When Godsend had been a torment in every heart, Malcolm had only wanted a respite, and a means to bring about a final burst, a final flame. He had orchestrated the means to elicit great jealousy, great resentment in him, and so he goaded the champion into murdering Viper, knowing what would result from that. Eliminating Viper, Malcolm’s own chief rival, the man who had been the most misguided of all, was the sweetest moment in all the war. That moment was dulled, as so many others were, by the cost which only added to the mounting toll, which Malcolm found he could no longer live with.

Do you feel sympathy for him? Malcolm sees this moment as a relief, because he has been waiting for it, placing so much into it that he has been depending on it, dreading it, needing it, for so long. The great clash is not much of a contest. In his anger, Godsend cannot contain himself. He taunts Malcolm like he is a little boy unworthy of this fight, much less the war, or any responsibility, for look at what he has done with it. Was it worth it, Godsend says, worth all the pain this moment is delivering? The mighty blows are coming. Godsend brings about the summation of all his will, the determination of a lifetime devoted so a single-minded cause, and the glory of his calling, so that he might avenge himself. This moment isn’t about Agog, and is not even about the war, or what Godsend thinks of Malcolm himself.

In one fatal blow, Godsend knocks Malcolm from the sky, down to the crumbling earth, into the dust of the battlefield, and drags him through the streets, still breathing. He drags him so that his life will be spent in a protracted moment, by his heels, with which his hands grip like talons, piercing them. Godsend knows no mercy, knows not even when Malcolm finally expires. He continues his journey, as the city watches, mindless of any other thought but his vindication. Malcolm’s body becomes unrecognizable in all this, the physical establishment of his end. Three times Godsend drags him around the entire city, through its winding streets. Where is he going? He is making a statement about Traverse, about Malcolm Bidd. He is making his stand, and declaring that there is nowhere else left to go but here. There is no destination left but the city.